


Catalyst

by Cjcorrigan



Series: The Emperor Consort [1]
Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:37:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cjcorrigan/pseuds/Cjcorrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Prince and a pickpocket fatefully meet in an incident which will alter the courses of both their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tumblr user toaslanscountry](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+toaslanscountry).



> The story is based on a larger set of headcanons by myself and tumblr user toaslanscountry, and it will go up in small sections like threeshots or fourshots, so if you like it and are interested in more be sure to follow not just the story but also the series! This way, if I lose focus in one section of the story it won’t necessarily put the entire au on hold like it would if I did it in the format of one big piece. If you are enjoying it be sure to leave kudos or a comment, because the more feedback I get, the more motivated I will be to continue! Without further adieu, please read and enjoy.

Rook had never given Volstov’s nobility much thought, mainly because he reckoned (no, he knew) they never gave him any. And so, when the Esarevich, Prince Thomas, they called him, made every front page from Molly to Miranda, he rolled his eyes. So the Prince preferred men, what did it matter? There were cindies by the dozen in this country, so why the fuck was it anyone’s’ business that the Prince happened to be one of them.

And when the royals swept by, only blocks from the Fans, it’s not like he wanted to be there, it was simply that so many people in one place, all focused on Volstov’s sweethearts, was a pickpocket’s dream.

Everyone was waving as the convoy come into sight. The Royal Pain in the Ass himself sat in a carriage, washing them all in an aloof gaze, his wife at his side waving courteously and smiling indulgently. The Prince, as usual, walked alongside the convoy, doing the royal duty of charming the masses, and after his father’s career, he had a lot of favor to win back for the family. He reached through his wall of guards clad in cardinal red with gold epaulets, to take flowers when they were offered, brushing his fingertips along theirs.  
Rook pushed through the crowd, hoping he seemed like any other person pushing to the front of the pack to get a glimpse of royalty, slipping fingers into pockets and slipping out coin as he went. That’s when he saw a glint of silver catch the sun through a forest of legs.

The blade he saw slipping from its sheath belonged to the guard nearest the pack of people in the Prince’s rear. Transfixed on the steel of the knife, Rook watched the man’s free hand reach for the Prince, and the arm tighten in preparation for the deadly motion which he knew would come next.

For a split second he wondered if there was a point in him doing anything at all. If he did entertain the notion that this was a life he needed to save, then what guarantee did he have that the next Esar would be better than the last?

And yet before the thought was complete, his legs had made the decision for him. He was rushing forward now, barrelling forward with all the force his body had, lunging to rip the guard’s arm as the knife slashed at the Prince’s bicep.

Prince Thomas let out a cry of shock and pain while Rook, now officially in a brawl slammed his fist into the guard’s nose. In a flurry of motion, Rook found himself straddling the man with his hands around the guard’s neck, watching his eyes dim, but soon he was ripped away by strong, large hands tearing at his arms. The next thing he registered was a strike in his face, feeling blooming pain in his cheek and his legs crumple, and though he was already on the ground, the hits and kicks and slams against the broken cobblestone kept coming. That was until a yell rang out, echoing across the people and convoy and the crumbling belltower of a long-forgotten church: “UNHAND HIM IMMEDIATELY.”

It wasn’t the shout of a general that stifled objection under its weight but a humble, frightened commandment by a voice you listened to because you wanted to serve it. The frightened masses quieted, and Rook felt the grip on his threadbare shirt loosen and his weight crash down again before he forced himself up on his hands and knees before his slowly got to his feet, helped by a gentle hand on his arm.

Looking up, Rook found himself face to face with the Prince, who kept one hand on Rook, and the other held up against the guards. “This man saved my life,” he told them, assessing Rook. Eyes widening, he breathed out, “My God.”

Following Prince Thomas’s eyes to his torso, Rook found what had made him so surprised: the knife in his gut, above his right hip. Prince Thomas’s authoritating voice was back then, “He’s been stabbed. We must get him to medical attention at once. And what are you all waiting for, take that assassin into custody.”

And just like that, the Prince was turning and joining his parents in the carriage, while Rook was rushed in alongside him. As he stumbled into the carriage, Prince Thomas gently pushed him down into the white plush seat beside him. The Prince’s golden jacket was now covered in blood, both Rook’s and his own, and warily Rook thought, Well shit, how am I going to pay for that. But the Prince hadn’t seemed to notice the stains, which Rook just knew would never come out. In fact the Prince was rather focused on him at the moment, putting pressure on Rook’s wound.

While the other man stared intently, brow furrowed, at his torso, Rook conceded, only slightly, mind you, that he could see what everyone swooned over so much. The illustrations in the newspapers didn’t do the Prince justice. He supposed they must have left out the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks in an effort to make him look more sophisticated, and a black and white newspaper never would include the deep blue-green wells that were his eyes.

Even as content as he would be to watch the Prince’s face all the way to Miranda, Rook was more worried about the people on the other side of the carriage. The Esarina thankfully looked more concerned with her son than him. The Esar on the other hand was staring straight back at him.


	2. The Offer

The next time Rook woke up, he was on a bed, staring at an ornate ceiling with golden molding framing intricate murals he thinks were probably supposed to depict a hunting scene. The room was empty accept for himself, a large arrangement of flowers by his bedside, and an empty chair. The windows were open, allowing for a gentle breeze of the springtime air to blow through the room, and the sliding doors opposite him were left ajar with the tell-tale glimpse of something read on each side which told him he was being guarded.

Only one way to find out.

“HEY! HEY, I’m better now you can let me go! You’ve made your point, I’ll go back to Molly and tell everyone how well the Prince treated me after I saved his life.” Come to think of it, given his former profession that one might be received as a threat as well as a promise. That was fine though because playing nice evidently didn’t give these guys any ideas of letting him go. He could climb out the window? But the tree branches he could suggested he was at least on the second floor, a jump he might normally risk if he hadn’t been stabbed earlier in the day. Actually, was it the same day?

Rook sat up with a groan and immediately regretted waking up in the first place as a massive wave of vertigo and a sudden pang of a headache hit him, arguably worse than the nausea and, y’know, the hole in his side. He shifted only as quickly as he dared, throwing his legs to one side of the bed. The second his feet hit the floor, the guards at the door sprung to.

“Sir, get back into bed. You are to remain here until the Prince comes to see you,” the one on his right said.

The one on his laugh snorted in a soft giggle he was trying to contain. “Yeah, lay back down. The Prince has already been notified that you’re awake.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll take it from here.”

Speak of the devil.

The Prince swept in in a swarm of more guards. He was no longer covered in blood but was now in a white and gray get up. This one was probably threaded in silver, Rook imagined bitterly, thinking back on the rich gold outfit of the day before.

“Don’t much care for being kept prisoner here, though I s’pose I shoulda known this was the thanks I’d get for doing something for a royal,” Rook spat, before he could stop himself.

The Prince flinched. “Ah, I apologize. We haven’t been the most gracious of hosts. I wanted to be here before you awoke, but duty interferred, I’m afraid. We don’t mean for you feel as a prisoner does, but I had to see you before you left. You understand.”

Rook didn’t. “And why would you want to see me? It’s not like I saved your life or anything.” This time His Highness bristled before regaining his composure and Rook smirked. This kid -was almost too easy to rile up. And to think: he wanted to be king.

“I think you’ll find,” the Prince began, taking on the voice authority used when they lost the upperhand and had to claw their way back up, “that you and I have not made each other’s acquaintance, and you would have no way of knowing me or whether or not I am one of the bigoted nobles who judges and hates Mollies indiscriminately. In fact, I’ll have you know that I came here to offer you a job.”

“Well, if you’re such a Molly-love-“ Rook stopped in his tracks as the Prince’s words hit him like a sledgehammer. He felt vertigo all over again. “Wait, you what?”

It was the Prince’s turn to smirk. “It seems after the recent events that I’m short a guard, and given that you stopped the attack no one else saw, even those trained to see them, I believe you are more than qualified for the position.”

For once, Rook was speechless. Finally, he came back down to earth. “And you think your father will employ a dirty Molly?”

“My father is nearing his end as King. By now, the Royal Guard and more importantly their Chief Sergeant is more loyal to me than him. If the Chief Sergeant sees you fit for duty, it would not be honorable for Father to do anything. The uniform, lodging, and your food would be paid for, or course, and as you’ve seen for yourself now, the job would primarily be to stand and follow me around.”

“And what makes you think I’d want to spend all my hours with you?”

“Quite simply? You won’t survive another winter on the streets.”

It felt like the Prince had punched him in the gut. Rook was furious, no, beyond furious, that this little shit, this royal pain in his ass thought he knew a damn thing about what it meant to starve and be kicked by passers by just for asking for pocket change. And yet, he was right. Rook knew he was paper thin, knew that where he came from wouldn’t take him now that he’d spent any amount of time around this many Wolves as a _guest_ , not a criminal. In Volstov it was bow to a little Prince or die. One way or the other.

“Where do I sign?”


End file.
